Flatmates
by silver-kin
Summary: Why waste time being afraid? Let's just skip ahead to the part where we're friends.


Notes: For augusta_brie. Written for the Trick of Treat 2014 Challenge. I'd recommend reading the AO3 version, for some additional formatting that I couldn't include in this version.

Disclaimer: Diamond no Ace belongs to Terajima Yuuji

* * *

"I've always thought it a little strange," Chris muses quietly, "that you're not afraid of me."

Miyuki pauses the video, and blinks at the boy seated across from him. "Should I be?"

He shrugs, shoulders barely lifting in the gesture. "Everyone else was. I assumed you would, too."

"Well, it was a little annoying that all my pens and notebooks kept going missing," Miyuki replies, delighted when that brings a sheepish smile into the other boy's expression, "but it's not like you had any way of asking me."

"I _did,_" Chris says, sounding mildly offended. "I asked you every time. You just didn't hear me."

"That too." Miyuki thinks back to those first few weeks after he had moved in, and wonders, with guilt on his tongue and a strange discomfort in his bones, what that must have been like for Chris. "Besides, this was your home first. If you don't feel like leaving, I have no right to chase you out."

"Technically, this is your house too, now."

"So it is. Besides, I've always wanted a flatmate. And you even do _my_ share of the house chores sometimes." He slides an elbow forward, rests his cheek in his upturned palm as he grins at the other boy. "To be honest, I think I've got the better deal here."

That earns him a quiet laugh—the sound tumbles lightly through the night, erupts into butterflies in his stomach. Miyuki is still staring when Chris meets his eyes with a soft smile; Miyuki rips his gaze away, back to the notes in his hands, where the words seep and merge with each other, blurring in a mess of ink. Exhaling quietly, he rubs at the corner of his eyes, feels his glasses rock unsteadily on his nose.

"You should sleep."

When Miyuki looks up, Chris' features are etched with worry, eyebrows drawn tight. "I'm fine. I want to finish this tonight."

"No point in trying to work while you're tired," Chris admonishes with a frown. "Don't you have practice in the morning?"

He rubs the back of his neck, but makes no move to get up. "I'm fine."

Chris sighs, a soft wisp of air that floats in the air around him, smoky white, before fading. He rises from his seat, feet padding soundlessly against the floor—and for a moment Miyuki's guts twists into knots, sends a rush of—worry, fear, incompetence—nausea up his throat, collecting in the back of his mouth—

But Chris only crosses the short distance between them, coming to a stop beside him, and peering over Miyuki's shoulder at his laptop. "Is this your next opponent?"

Miyuki blinks, snapping his head back to the screen. "Yeah. We're playing them next week," he says, "It's going to be fun."

"I'm sure it will," Chris chuckles.

He turns the laptop slightly so Chris gets a better angle, and taps the space bar. The baseball match resumes with the top of the fifth, Inashiro on defense, with four runs ahead of their opponent. Chris stares at the screen, eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he watches the game; Miyuki traces the lines of Chris' profile, noting the way the glowing screen pours light into his face, seeping like bleach into his dark hair and pale skin.

When Chris glances over, Miyuki smiles wide, leans a little closer as he asks, "So, what do you think?"

"He's as impressive as ever," Chris replies, glancing thoughtfully at the pitcher. "That changeup is new, isn't it? He didn't have that before."

"That's Mei for you," he returns cheerily.

('_Before'_ dissipates into the night, unacknowledged)

Chris hums in agreement. "It's going to be tricky, but not impossible." He looks to Miyuki, one eyebrow raised in clear challenge. "Think you can handle it?"

A thrill runs down his spine, heats his cheeks. "Of course!"

"Good," he says, wearing an oddly satisfied smile. He straightens, taking half a step back, and the expression melts into an apology. "I should get going."

Miyuki feels a heavy weight sinking deep into his stomach as he glances at his watch: six minutes past ten. He wonders, like he has every other night, about the significance of this particular time of the day; _where_ and _why_ come to mind first, the clearest and most obvious of starting points, but everything after that is a mess of words tangled in each other, lodged deep in his chest and far out of his reach.

Instead he lets his lips stretch wide, and says, "See you tomorrow, Chris-senpai."

The other boy doesn't answer immediately, only matches Miyuki's unwavering gaze with his own. The silence curls around them both, unpleasant, and even though Miyuki fights to keep his expression steady, it cracks at the edges, threatens to shatter.

Chris turns away first.

Miyuki looks down, relief rolling out of his lungs in a carefully measured exhalation of breath. He returns his attention to his notes, stares unseeing at the scrawl of his own handwriting as he waits.

He expects Chris to leave immediately, the way he does every night.

Which is why he's startled when a hand comes to rest on his nape. The touch is so cold it _burns_, and Miyuki has never sat so still in his entire life.

"Miyuki," Chris begins, moving closer—Miyuki feels it in the way his skin prickles with goosebumps, trembling with shivers.

And he holds his breath, his heart thundering against his ribcage.

"Don't overdo it," Chris murmurs, no louder than a whisper. "Make sure to get enough rest."

Miyuki swallows hard, and manages a quick nod, but he doesn't dare raise his head.

Nothing else comes. The sting on his neck recedes ever so slightly as the air around him warms, and Miyuki glances over just in time to see Chris drift into the hallway, fading as he rounds the corner.

The silence returns louder than before. It shadows his every movement, follows him into the bedroom and under the covers, where it coils around him, suffocating him.

Miyuki lies awake for a long time afterwards; the touch remains cold on his skin until morning.


End file.
